hold onto me (i'm a little unsteady)
by wordsmiths
Summary: Sometimes, it is hard to breathe. /post-framework fitz introspection


**I haven't written a fic in a while, but this just... happened. Any feedback is appreciated. Also, Leo Fitz needs a big hug.**

 **TW for self-harm and attempted suicide.**

 **I don't own Agents of SHIELD.**

* * *

He is unable to breathe sometimes, the weight of all that's happened crushing his chest. His lungs squeeze together, air struggling to get through his clenched teeth. He feels Jemma's body next to him and he shivers, inching towards the edge of the bed.

He is not worthy.

In his pocket, the metal of the ring cuts against his skin, digging deep until it leaves marks. He pushes it in further because he can't give it to her. Not after all he's done.

The skin on his upper thigh is red, raw, pulsing with pain. He digs in deeper.

In her sleep, Jemma reaches out to him, puts her hand on his side, and all he can remember is—

 _I want to hear you say it. I. am. nothing. to. you._

She whispers "I love you" in her sleep. He hears "I hate you," and he pushes her hand away. It brushes against the ring, briefly, and Fitz almost cries out in pain before realizing that he can't.

He can't take away her sleep from her, the only refuge she has from him. The only refuge she has from the Framework. She is pure, whole. She does not deserve to be tainted by him, by his soul, by his blood pouring out, by blood gushing from bullet wounds—

 _I know exactly who I am_.

Numbly, he gets up and leaves their room. Walks into the hallway. Left, right, left, right. Takes a breath. Left, right, left, right. Breath. The walls are bathed in yellow light, and the shadows at this time of the night are eerie.

The lab is empty. He flicks the switch. Left, right, left, right. Picks up a wire or two. Left, right, left, right. Soldering iron. Left, right, left right. Some metal.

And then he is seventeen again, young and invincible and already in his first PhD program and he is _building things_ and he is _going to make the world a better place_. He meets Jemma Simmons at a graduate students' function one night, and she looks entirely too young to be there, and so does he. She compliments the temporary tattoo of a monkey on his neck, at the spot he rubs when he realizes that _this_ is what it's like to meet someone like him, and he hates her for being so similar to him. But another portion of him wonders: _what if what if what if_ —

And then he is seventeen again, and he is the youngest person to ever have graduated from SciTech and he is already building weapons for SHIELD. They call him a weapon, in a way, and his father is proud. The way his father's teeth curl upwards is predatory, but it makes everything worth it. They say that he is brilliant, that he is the future, the next Howard Stark. But Fitz—Fitz knows that he can be more than that. He is not the next anyone—he is himself. Leopold Fitz. And he'll be damned if he lets anyone get in his or his father's way, because he is _in control_ —

And then he is thirty years old and there is blood all over his hands and _what has he done what has he done_ until he recognizes the sharp pang in his wrists as his own. The workbench is covered in blood now, crimson against stark white. Blood trickles down his wrist and onto the floor, and he wonders what would happen if he stayed here forever. If he let it drip down, counting the droplets as they go:

one, two, three, four—left, right, left, right—five, six, seven eight ten—left right left—twenty thirty forty fifty—left, left—

* * *

He wakes up on the sickbed, and he wants to scream. There's been a mistake—he needs to be left alone, to see his blood drip out on the floor like he did to all the Inhumans.

And suddenly, Jemma's face is above him, and her eyes are frantic, searching for-

something, he guesses. Something he doesn't have.

"Go away, Jemma."

"Fitz, you nearly bled out—"

Her eyes are rimmed with red, and tears stain her face. She looks at him like he's broken, like he's a monster, and he supposes he is.

"Please."

"Fitz—" and she takes the ring out of her pocket, and he dropped it somewhere, and—

"Fitz, please. I know the Framework was bad for you, but you're—"

"I wanted to kill you. I hated you, and a part of me still does. You can't _fix_ me, Jemma. I'm not one of your experiments."

"I know," she says, her voice small, pleading. "But—we can try—because I still love you."

He counts the number of taps her foot does, the twitches of her finger as she speaks. He knows what she's saying, but she doesn't understand. He can see shards of metal through the windows, and he wonders if sticking them in his skin would help.

"Jemma—" he says, his tongue stuck to his throat, "I need—"

And he doesn't know what to say. He needs—space, he supposes. Love. Time. To be alone. To leave. Because part of him is still from the Framework, and he can't change that. He cannot change himself, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how hard he's tried.

But then Jemma kneels and holds out the ring and she is crying and Fitz is—

"You aren't that man, Leopold Fitz. You are good. And—I love you."

And the wound on his thigh aches, and his hand aches, and his heart aches, because _this_ is what his life could look like, him and Jemma together forever.

"Jemma, I can't—I'll hurt you—I tried to—"

The lights are too bright for this, too fluorescent, too new. He needs to breathe, to take this in, because Jemma Simmons is proposing to him and he is not whole and _he is not worthy_ but then she is pressing the ring into his hand and kissing him and—

Perhaps he can heal.


End file.
